your heartache is not forever
by bergamots
Summary: The male ego was so fragile, she considered as the doctor took out a torch and began to examine her eyes.


This was just an idea I had banging around in my head for a while now – it was refreshing to write something that didn't involve death or a _ton_ of angst haha! This piece is kinda angsty though. Let me know what you think!

Title taken from Ladyhawke's _Wild Things._

warnings: angst, some Not Nice Thoughts if you look closely enough

* * *

Riza Hawkeye had never been fond of hospitals as a rule of thumb – the smell was always too astringent, too strong – and if she was being entirely honest, she was terrified of needles. It didn't seem _right_ that you could shove a piece of thin metal into your arm and just _leave_ it there without some sort of awful repercussion.

On that note, it was why she was trying her best not to flinch as the doctor began to stitch her right cheek back together – she couldn't actually _feel_ anything, as the woman had numbed that part of her face – but it was a very strange sensation to feel her skin being pulled by thread and pierced repeatedly.

It was not right at all.

There was a _snip_ and the doctor pulled pack, inspecting her handiwork. "It should heal cleanly, provided you don't bust it up again." The older woman stared at Riza, eyes narrowed. "It won't, will it?"

Riza shook her head, trying to ignore the increasing waves of dizziness and nausea that came about whenever she moved her head. She certainly wasn't going to give the officer the option to be near her if she could help it. She was exhausted and sore and a little disorientated – but above all she was _embarrassed._

Fisticuffs were not a common part of military day-to-day life, contrary to popular opinion – punching people just made for more paperwork and nobody enjoyed extra bureaucracy, particularly when it wasn't their fault. Of course, none of that really mattered, Riza thought, watching as the doctor made some illegible notes on her clipboard. None of it did, really – not when _bureaucracy_ turned into _court-martial_.

Point of the matter was that Riza Hawkeye had been sucker-punched by an unruly private during a routine training activity over the private's inability to accept the criticism given to him. Riza didn't consider herself a particularly harsh critic, not when compared to the sergeants' she had during her time at the training academy – but apparently it was too much for the young man. The male ego was so _fragile_ , she considered as the doctor took out a torch and began to examine her eyes. All it took from her was a sharp comment about what was lacking in his parade rest for him to lash out – quite literally.

It had been a few years since she had been punched with _actual_ intent – regular spars with the Colonel aside – and speaking of the Colonel…

 _His_ reaction was no better, in her opinion. She could vaguely remember shouting as she had been knocked down – but the _snap_ of his ignition gloves cut through the ringing in her ears as clear as day – and then Havoc had appeared by her, profanity spilling from his mouth like an oil slick and warm hands keeping her head still as he tried to inspect the damage done to her face. She had tried her best not to cry but she could feel the stinging of salty tears in her cheek and it was hard to keep her breathing even – everything was blurry and loud around her, the ground was shaking and Havoc was in the middle of it, steadfast, calm and composed. She had never been quite so grateful for him in that moment – at least _he_ knew how to respond in a dignified manner.

In all the confusion Havoc had quickly pulled her away from the chaos that had erupted on the parade grounds, careful not to jostle her as he all but carried her back into the main administration building, yelling for someone to call for an ambulance. At the time she had thought the man was overreacting – but now she could feel the ache settling into her bones, and the unnatural warmth of her right cheek. Riza wasn't out of shape by any stretch of the imagination – but the punch had come out of the blue, and with no adrenalin to temper the blow she knew in the coming week that the pain would only become more acute.

The doctor pulled back and jotted down a few more notes down on the clipboard next to her. "From what I can see you got off lightly – the gashing aside, of course. You're lucky; any higher and you might've ended up with a fractured eye socket." She gestured to the wound. "What did he get you with anyway? A hangnail? A simple punch shouldn't tear the skin like this."

Riza laughed – and immediately regretted it, pain shooting through her nose and temples. The anaesthetic was _very_ local, apparently. "Not quite," she managed. "I think he had a signet ring on."

The doctor tutted sympathetically. "That would certainly do it. Make sure to keep the wound clean – an infection there could prove dangerous. Do I need to write you a prescription for antiseptic?"

Riza nodded carefully, trying her best not to hurl as another wave of dizziness washed over her.

"Alrighty," the woman replied, ripping a piece of paper covered with what looked like chicken scratches from a notepad and placed it on the table next to the bed Riza was sitting on. Even Edward had better handwriting than this woman's. "Take this to the pharmacist and they'll sort you out just fine. You got someone to take you home?" the doctor queried, standing up and stripping off her gloves, throwing them into the bin by the door.

"Yes," Riza replied quietly, leaning back onto the bed, the world suddenly a lot calmer at a forty-five degree angle. "I think they're waiting for you outside." She had heard voices through the walls, their cadences and idiosyncrasies both familiar and comforting.

The doctor nodded and shrugged her white coat back on, before leaving the room. Immediately there was an increase in volume through the door that was left slightly ajar, and Riza tried her best not to cry again. Already she could feel the pain medication she had been given in the ambulance starting to wear off, and her whole face felt like it had been hit with a truck. It would not do to be overly emotional over a freak incident – and apparently when it came to the Colonel, _she_ was the one who had to act like a rational adult.

Slowly, she turned on the bed, pulling one of the lumpy hospital-issued pillows down and hugged it to her chest, carefully breathing through her nose. She could feeling a headache growing at the back of her skull, dull but consistent. She just wanted to sleep for a few hours – sleeping through the pain would be so much easier than having to consider how she moved her jaw, much easier than controlling her breathing.

There was a soft knock at the door and she looked up to see the entire team sans Warrant Officer Falman file into the room, the Colonel the last to walk in, his brow furrowed something awful.

"Hey guys," she greeted them tiredly, not bothering to shift from her position on the bed, arms wrapped around a pillow. "What's scuttlebutt saying?"

"Not much," Breda replied, sitting in the chair that the doctor had been using, regarding her with a critical eye. "It's hardly a story to embellish. You got punched by a wanker."

"Has he done this before?" she asked, eyes flitting to where Mustang stood at the back of the room, an unreadable expression on his face.

"According to Warrant Officer Falman, no. But he's got a history of pissing off his higher-ups – it's why he got transferred here in the first place." Breda ran a hand through his hair roughly, sighing loudly. "Sounds like a real swell guy, doesn't he?"

"Just peachy," she replied. "Good to know it was nothing personal."

Havoc snorted at that, clapping Fuery on the back rather roughly. "You wanna have the honours of telling her?" Fuery shook his head frantically, almost shrinking on the spot.

Riza frowned, trying to ignore the sudden shooting pain in her temple. "Tell me what, Havoc?" she asked carefully, glancing back to Mustang. His face, if at all possible, had twisted even more unpleasantly at this shift in conversation.

"It, uh…was personal," Havoc answered, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly. "Man was bitching something awful about you when I dragged you away. It got a lot worse when he was placed under arrest."

She pursed her lips. "Do I want to know more?" she asked cautiously.

" _No_." Mustang spoke up for the first time, his voice sharp and furious. "The Lieutenant doesn't need any more stress than what she is currently dealing with." He uncrossed his arms, and Riza noticed that his fists were clenched tightly. "You've all seen that she's fine, bar some stitches." He looked at Havoc pointedly.

Breda got the hint before his friend did. "Yes, sir. We'll get Sergeant Fuery to drop Black Hayate off at Lieutenant Hawkeye's apartment later tonight." He stood and opened the door, waiting for the other two to leave before shutting the door behind him with a soft _click_.

There was silence in the room for a while as Mustang leaned against the wall, fists clenching and unclenching while Riza looked at him, waiting. Eventually he pushed off the wall, and sat down in the chair that Breda had vacated, hanging his head in his hands. "The doctor said you could end up with a scar," he said after a while.

"Wouldn't be the worst I've had, sir," she replied easily. His head shot up at that and downright _glared_ at her.

"That's not funny, Lieutenant," he snapped, rubbing at his face. She had to try to not crack a smile.

 _Men_.

"Of course not, sir," she replied, shifting slightly on the bed so she could see him better. "Forgive me if I don't want to focus on the grizzlier aspects of today."

He relaxed a little at this, the sharp line of his shoulders softening somewhat. "You're okay though?"

She smiled affectionately and stretched out her hand to him – carefully, he took of his gloves and set them down by her prescription and clasped her hand within his own, kissing her knuckles softly. "It'll hurt like a bitch tomorrow," she replied quietly, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand. "But I think that the doctor's prescribed me some quality painkillers. Thank goodness for modern medicine."

He managed a weak smile at that, sighing deeply.

"Was it that bad?" she asked carefully, squeezing his hand. The responding grip spoke volumes and she bit her lip, ducking her head. "I see," she managed. The whole room was too hot all of a sudden – she could feel hot tears prickling uncomfortably at the corners of her eyes and the familiar tightening in her chest. His thumbs drew constant patterns on her hand as she fought to control her breathing, pain stabbing through her nose with every harsh inhalation.

"I'm sorry to have worried you," she managed, her voice thick in her throat.

"It's not your fault," he soothed, fingers drifting over the pulse point in her wrist delicately. "At this point I don't think you'll even need to provide evidence beyond 'he punched me in the face and it hurt a lot'."

A watery laugh bubbled out of her and she grimaced at the resulting pain. "At least there's that," she replied, a warm smile growing on her face. "I may need to take a couple of days off work as well."

"Aren't you lucky?" he commented, moving a hand to her face and very carefully pushed her fringe back from her face, before stopping. "Where's your clip?" he asked, puzzled.

"In my jacket pocket," she replied. "I must have landed on it when I was hit – it's in a few pieces now."

He let go of her hand for a moment, moving to the end of the bed where her jacket was draped over and fished around in her pockets.

"Roy?" she asked, sitting up a little to see what he was doing.

"Give me a moment," he said, before walking over to the counter top on the side of the room, and grabbed a sheet of paper and a pencil. There was a minute where he stood scribbling onto the piece of paper and muttering to himself indistinctly before he placed her clip into the middle of the paper. There was a pause before a familiar blue light emitted from the counter top and then faded away.

"It's been a while since I did something as simple as this," he admitted, walking back to Riza with her now-repaired clip. "I'm not entirely sure I did it right – if it breaks again I'll buy you a new one."

"Thank you," Riza said, accepting the clip and inspecting it critically. "I'm sure it'll be fine." She shifted a little on the bed and patted the empty space next to her.

"Riza, I don't think-"

"Just a few minutes," she coaxed. "These pillows are awful. I know for a fact you are _far_ more comfortable."

"Oh, fine," he said, a lop-sided grin growing on his face. "This would be a lot more comfortable at your place though…"

"We'll be going there in a bit anyway," she replied, gingerly resting her head on his chest as he settled down beside her. "Now kindly shut up for five minutes."


End file.
